


You're, Like, Hella Swole

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Creampie, Cunnilingus, Double Vaginal Penetration, Frottage, Impregnation Kink, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: When they get their food, Kengo holds it on his lap and turns around in the passenger’s seat, peering through the slat of the headrest and backrest. “Hey.”“Hi,” Yagami says.“You know he’s gonna make us fuck each other, right?”
Relationships: Yagami Takayuki/Hamura Kyohei/Kengo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	You're, Like, Hella Swole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carriejack03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carriejack03/gifts).



“I _said_ I wanted mayonnaise,” Yagami insists, hissing into Hamura’s ear. The car smells of grease and salt and nicotine and Kengo’s pungent, sour cologne that he probably thinks is very tasteful, given its price tag. To Yagami, it smells like generic brand bathroom soap mixed with whiskey.

“And can I get mayo on that?” Hamura huffs, pushing Yagami back by his face, his whole palm enveloping his nose. Yagami is tempted to stick his tongue out and lick him. His skin is warm, comforting—embarrassingly familiar. But he obediently melts back into the stiff leather seats.

Drive-thrus are a rare commodity for someone who doesn’t have his own car, so it’s pretty exciting to speak to that little box with a voice in it without being asked to take a goddamn picture with the cashier, both of you wearing huge, Smile Burger-level grins. Just give him his fucking food, you know? Still, Yagami’s not happy about being shoved into the backseat of a sportscar. He regularly hits his head walking into certain low doorways in buildings made during the Showa Era. As such, his legs are digging into the back of the driver’s seat, where Hamura is haughtily perched, shouting their orders out the window, into the yellowed glow of an LED menu.

It isn’t fair. Kengo’s shorter and younger than him, so why does _he_ get the front seat? Yagami can’t help but feel like a sullen teenager getting replaced. Preferential treatment for baby brother, or whatever. But he can’t fault Hamura entirely. Of course, yakuza will always choose each other. Still, Yagami likes to believe he’s part of the culture just given his tenure with Matsugane-san, even if he never officially signed up.

“Yagami-san, you have your wallet?” Hamura asks, pulling forward.

Yagami huffs. Of course, Hamura doesn’t ask Kengo for _his_ wallet.

“No.”

Hamura darts a fog-colored glare in the rearview. His lashes seem to kiss as they narrow. He’s so pretty, even at his age. Yagami might even argue he’s looked better with time.

Feeling tender today. He can’t quite put his finger on why, though.

“For fuck’s sake. Such a mooch.”

“Kengo’s not paying either!” Yagami points out, crossing his arms. God, he’s really being a brat. He knows he is, and he finds that he doesn’t care. His pride isn’t hurt by being a crybaby around a guy like Hamura. Irritating him is his bread and butter.

“Kengo’s my employee.”

“Well, sometimes you hire _me_ too, so consider this a deduction from the next case you want from me.”

Hamura rolls his eyes and forks over a crisp bill pinched between two thin fingers that have rested in Yagami’s mouth far too often. _Keep the change_.

When they get their food, Kengo holds it on his lap and turns around in the passenger’s seat, peering through the slat of the headrest and backrest. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Yagami says.

“You know he’s gonna make us fuck each other, right?” he says, as matter of fact and chillingly as announcing a patriarch’s death. He digs in the grease-splotched brown bag and harvests a few fries, handing them to Yagami. What a thoughtful, generous boy.

“Yeah, probably,” Yagami says, unsurprised. It’s not like Hamura just calls him up and asks if he wants to grab something from Smile Burger without some sort of ulterior motive. He seems pretty smug with himself, sitting like a fat bird with its pearlescent feathers fluffily groomed in the driver’s seat. Preens just as much, too.

“You don’t mind?”

Yagami shrugs and eats the proffered fries. Licks the oil coating his fingers as he says, “Nah. You?”

“Nope.”

They both look at Hamura, a little defeated and ashamed with themselves—but it’s not like any of them are unattractive. Not like any of it is unappealing; just morally grey. Yagami treads a fine line with his standards when it comes to the law, but when it comes to his own dick, the rules are far less strict.

He’s not sure whether or not that makes him a bad person, giving bad people what they want.

Well—if not him, some other whore that’s more desperate than him, with dark rings around his hollow eyes and track marks on the bend of his underfed arms. That’s how he justifies it. This imaginary homeless guy fucking a dangerous clan of yakuza for cash; Yagami’s preventing that, one creampie at a time. Noble, isn’t he?

Rolling his eyes at his own train of thought, he rubs at his puffy lower lid and yawns.

As for Kengo, the shame comes with having to share Hamura at all. He’s a possessive baby bird, snuggled under that fat dove’s wingspan. But he knows there’s no way he can have an iron grip on his aniki, someone who dictates and puppeteers everything he does. Like he can influence him at all, much less become some sacred yakuza wife. One would never be enough for Hamura. But he’s willing to set aside his wishes of monogamy for a chance to sleep with him, no matter who joins.

It’s embarrassing. He hopes no one knows.

But also—Yagami’s not half-bad of a partner, he guesses.

“I like your aegyo sal,” Kengo says in an attempt to make this less awkward.

“My _what_?”

Hamura chuckles, driving them in the direction of the Hotel District. Oh, he’s _spoiling_ them. It’s nostalgic for Yagami, almost, passing through these neon lights in the car with his old man, eating greasy food like he’s twenty and broke and horny and strapped for cash again. (The only difference in his life now, though, is that he’s thirty-five.)

Kengo eagerly explains, still turned around in his seat, his legs tucked up under his ass. Kid dresses well, but he doesn’t seem to care that the bottom of his shoes are flat against the cloth of his white trousers.

“The fatty deposits under your bottom eyelids. They’re like, smile lines. Really popular to get ‘em done in Korea, you know,” to emphasize, Kengo pushes up the skin under his own eyelids with the tips of his fingers, making his eyes look like little moon slivers under tucked skin. Yagami kicks his seat.

“Don’t do that, it’s freaky.”

Kengo laughs and plops down, facing forward, a shoe-print sized patch of dirt on the ass of his pants. Stupid kid. “But yours is natural. It’s a lucky feature, you know,” he says, unwrapping a burger and shoving too big of a bite into his mouth. His cheeks fill quickly, and he goes on talking as he chews it into a bolus.

_What’s he trying to prove with that mouthful?_

“Constantly looking kind. Not me. I’ve got a mean fucking mug, wouldn’t you say, Hamura-san?”

“Mmh. Like a killer.”

“People think I’m pissed no matter what,” he swallows, and grabs his cup that rattles with carbonation and ice, “Well—good for them, ‘cause I usually am.”

Yagami leans forward and digs into the bag on his lap, brushing over his thigh through the paper in an attempt to feel him up. For some reason, he doesn’t find the shape of a bulge over his crotch.

“And? Are you pissed right now?”

“Of course not,” Kengo says, “Who’s pissed right before they get DP’d?”

Yagami’s hand stills.

*

The pufferfish on his thigh gets a slap from Hamura and Kengo shrieks more for show than out of pain, the scab still mildly fresh. As he squirms uncomfortably, the skin over the ink that’s covered in tattoo lubricant almost looks as if the little kimono-wrapped fugu is swimming. Yagami watches in fascination.

“We got this not too long ago, back in Hokkaido, where I got my irezumi. He can’t afford a full-body piece, can you?”

Kengo huffs, shakes his head. _No shit_ , Yagami thinks, eyeing the pile of designer clothes messily draped on the floor.

“So, we got this little thing for starters. Kengo was a real man about it, sat there with the straightest face you’ve ever fucking seen. Took a couple hours. They don’t use tattoo guns there. Real traditional,” Hamura wraps his arm around Kengo’s middle. Kengo’s pretty fit under all those iridescent shirts and silk pants. He’s sitting on Hamura’s lap in a pair of boxers, adorned with a name brand upon the waistband that Yagami can’t read, because it’s in Italian. His thighs are draped right over Hamura’s, who’s still fully clothed. Yagami kneels between Kengo’s spread legs with his hands on his own knees.

The hotel room’s Chinese-styled, with low-lit orange lanterns and a collection of polychromatic qipao on the wall that none of them have taken advantage of—yet. Maybe later in the night. The bedding, the walls, and the décor are all imperial red. As is Hamura’s usual preference. Yagami supposes it has something to do with the penchant for violence. The color of blood.

“It looks good. Ukiyo-e, huh?” Yagami asks, breathless. Kengo smells good here, this cloying, masculine scent radiating warmly between his legs. Hamura too, who’s watching them with this smug, self-satisfied little smirk. His teeth peek out from between his pale lips and they find themselves at home in the juncture of Kengo’s shoulder and neck, biting the slowly developing muscle there.

“ _Ah_ …”

Yagami peels Kengo’s boxers off slowly, watching his expression for any nervousness, any dissatisfaction, and doesn’t find it. Kid’s as much of a pervert as his oyabun, and only twenty-something. Yagami supposes he was the same way, though. Kengo has blown-out pupils and parted, dick-sucking lips. Well—at least that’s consistent among Hamura’s tastes.

Yagami can’t say he’s not excited to kiss Kengo.

“Oh.”

On both pairs of lips, he guesses. Kengo shaves his pussy.

“That’s it,” Hamura says, “Why don’t you show off?”

Kengo looks shy, hesitates with his hand hovering over his cunt. Yagami’s eyes are half-mast, pleased. Everything about Kengo is covered in this pink, feverish blush. If he’s sick, so be it; he’ll catch a cold for this.

Hamura decides he’s taking too long and his hand settles between his legs for him, those long icepick-wielding fingers parting his pussy lips, showing off the blood-swollen vulva. Right on his clitoris is a small, silver piercing that’s the same color and quality as his chain. Not that fake hoop shit he wears on his ears. It’s a simple stud but it looks expensive, sensitive.

“We got this done, too,” Hamura says to Yagami, thumbing at the parted lips of his pussy. Kengo reaches back and winds a long arm around his neck, arching his neck back for a kiss that Hamura takes while making eye-contact with Yagami, looking very satisfied with himself.

He can’t blame him, Yagami supposes; he’d go for Kengo too if he was some predatory crime lord.

“Makes him real sensitive,” Hamura says when they part, and slowly rubs it.

As if to prove it, Kengo twitches with a high-pitched squeak, the skin of his inner thighs jiggling softly. Yagami doesn’t need to be told anything more as he grips Kengo’s calves and leans forward to press his lips to his cunt. Sure, he’s indulging all of Hamura’s greatest fucking fantasies or whatever, but he’s never one to say no to a pretty boy.

“Fuck,” Kengo gasps whenever Yagami swipes his tongue slowly around his labia, Hamura keeping his pussy spread for him. Yagami makes sure to nip at the tips of his fingers, too, before taking Kengo’s clit into his lips and carefully licking around the piercing. Kengo’s legs immediately wrap around his neck, pulling him close so he can rub himself against his mouth, his breathing strained, little wheezing noises escaping from between his grit teeth.

“That’s it,” Hamura repeats, “Get him wet enough that he doesn’t even fucking need lube.”

Yagami cocks an eyebrow, pulling away with a bit of effort, given the stranglehold of Kengo’s muscular thighs. A membrane of fluid connects his chin and Kengo’s cunt, “I don’t know about that.”

“You better use lube,” Kengo says, shooting a glare in Hamura’s direction. “Especially if I’m taking two.”

Hamura rolls his eyes and pats his thigh again, and Kengo pulls Yagami back down to the damp heat between them, throbbing against his tongue as Yagami eats him out as romantically as if he’s kissing a girl.

That’s how it goes for a while; Yagami licking him while Kengo produces these soft, wistful little exhales, his arms strained as they intermittently cling and let go of Hamura, his calves locked up behind Yagami’s shock of messy hair. Kengo honest-to-god starts _whining_.

Hamura hums, playing with the hoops in Kengo’s ear. “Reactive today, huh? Guess he’s better than me.”

Yagami smirks and hums between his legs as Kengo rubs his cunt on his face. The resulting vibration from the sound causes Kengo to shudder, his chest rising and falling in panicked jack-rabbit inhales. “Okay, okay— _stop_ , I’ll cum.”

His legs unwind once more and spread on Hamura’s lap. He jerks his chin in the direction of the nightstand, topped with a few condoms that Yagami finds unnecessary and a bottle of lubricant. Yagami snatches it and winces at the chafe of his too-tight jeans encasing his boner in their denim.

As he kneels between Kengo’s legs once more, Hamura pushes Kengo forward.

“Hey—”

“Stand up for a second,” he says, and as Kengo does, a hand winded in Yagami’s curls, Hamura begins working the belt and zipper of his pants, pushing them down his thighs. Hamura jerks off his dick with slow, purposeful strokes, staring at Yagami as he does.

_Your eyes have been on me the whole time_ , Yagami thinks, maintaining eye contact. Kengo, for his part, just stares at his cock with his pupils blown.

Hamura pats his own legs again and Kengo takes his place on Hamura once more, cozying up so that his pussy hovers just over Hamura’s erection. Yagami can’t help but wonder if Hamura’s limbs will fall asleep from the prolonged lap-sitting. Kengo’s muscles look heavy, and he’s not necessarily short or petite by any means. Yagami was lighter, always had trouble putting on muscle before he hit thirty. A skinny fawn in Hamura’s bed. (But much taller than the both of them.)

“Why don’t you suck my dick a little before we use the fake shit?” Hamura suggests, wrapping an arm around Kengo’s waist and pulling him back just a bit, tucked against his chest, so that Yagami can slobber at both of them with ease.

And he does.

His mouth goes to the shining, plum red head of Hamura’s cock and those plush lips spread over it. He laves over the shaft with a practiced but purposefully messy swipe of his tongue, drool leaking onto his chin. He doesn’t care about the mess, doesn’t care that he’s such an eager whore, that he’s willing to give head to two yakuza for free. Yagami’s pride lies elsewhere. Maybe he’ll be ashamed in the morning, but for now, he basks in the heady, aroused aroma of a cock and a pussy both waiting for him to take care of them.

And he knows what he’s doing; he knows what Hamura likes, mapping the underside with spit-slicked attention. He can’t really go down on him fully, not with Kengo’s body on top of Hamura’s, but he does his best, nipping at the sides and kissing where it’s fattest near the base. When Hamura’s cock starts twitching of its own accord, and when his breath comes out through his nose in dizzying, fast little puffs, Yagami pulls off. He doesn’t want either of them coming too soon.

Giving them a modicum of cool-down time, he stands up and shucks off his jacket, the heavy leather no longer suffocating. He wishes he’d dressed up a little more for this. There’s something appealing about the idea of slowly unrolling black pantyhose in front of them; maybe next time.

“You’re, like… hella swole,” Kengo observes.

“Yeah?” Yagami mumbles, basking in the attention as he drops the white t-shirt on the floor, kicking off his shoes and socks. He peels off his jeans. “It took me a while.”

Giving a conspiratorial glance to Hamura, he says, “Remember?”

Hamura hums, a non-committal sound.

Once he’s pulled his boxers down beneath his balls, he flicks open the cap of lube and spills it lazily onto his cock without warming it. All the better if the shock softens him up a little. He’s not trying to end up being a two-pump chump in front of his old sugar daddy and some eager kyoudai.

They make it hard for him, though; he doesn’t know if they’re really all that beautiful or if the combination of arousal and the softened hotel lights that cast them in a smoothing gold make them look better. God, he wants them both.

Approaching, he warms an amount of slippery lube in his palm before he starts jerking off Hamura, then with an easy upwards pass of his hand, he rubs it on Kengo as well—not that he really needs it. He’s leaking all over the loveseat, dying the lipstick-red patch precum maroon. _What a messy boy_ , he thinks headily, listening to the slick sounds his pussy makes with parted lips.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice sounding low, rattling with years of nicotine use, and grins when Kengo’s head bobs enthusiastically. Hamura had once compared him to a bulldog to Yagami before—he can kind of see the comparison to one now. He might as well have his tongue hanging out of his mouth, panting for it.

He grabs Hamura’s cock by the base first and looks at him. For such a horndog, Hamura usually wears the same smug, controlled expression—except when he’s bottoming, a rare occasion for Yagami. But now he looks dreamy, eyes hazed over with this milky film in his eyes.

“Bet you’re used to this already,” Yagami says, and guides his cock to Kengo’s entrance, “So this’ll be easier to start out with.”

Watching Hamura thrust into Kengo has Yagami’s dick dribbling out a wad of transparent jizz already, it’s so fucking attractive. He kneels down and parts Kengo’s thighs further to get a good look, watching that big cock spearhead through his entrance that’s sucking him in so well.

“That’s it,” Yagami encourages, breathlessly, “That’s a good boy. Must be nice, having that heavy dick fill up your little cunt, right? Bet you like it, being used like this… Bet Hamura gives it to you good, doesn’t he?”

“Y-yeah,” Kengo whimpers, staring at Yagami as if he’s in awe; as if he can’t even _comprehend_ that someone else might process how good it feels. Hamura thrusts up, his hands possessively going to Kengo’s stomach, and he bites one of his piercings, whispering into his ear between clenched teeth.

“Can you feel my big cock punching you out?” he presses down on his abdomen, where his cock would bulge if Kengo was thinner, like Yagami used to be. Yagami used to be able to look down and see the outline of his cock inside of him—same with Kaito. “Feel me taking care of this needy pussy?”

“Yes. Feel full… Ah— _ahn_ … Hamura-san, Yagami-san, use me…” he wheedles, but his eyes are on Yagami’s cock.

“Has he ever taken two dicks before?” Yagami asks, jerking himself off in slow motions. He knows his dick is nice—it’s not as thick as Hamura’s, but it’s dark and full, and about as pretty and sun-kissed as he is. (Yagami rarely has tan lines. He’s a bit of an exhibitionist, surprising absolutely no one.)

“Not with me, he hasn’t,” Hamura says as Yagami gets into position. It’s a little awkward, but he’s willing to accommodate, placing his cock right where Hamura’s filling him up. Hamura hasn’t been thrusting inside of him yet, just letting Kengo sit on his dick, keeping it warm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the little shit let Tashiro-kun and Higashi go at it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Kengo snarls, parroting Hamura from earlier, “I got better taste than _that_.”

“Clearly,” Yagami agrees with a smirk as he pushes in, watching his mouth fall open. Kengo doesn’t make a sound, though, his eyes widened as Yagami’s cock pushes past his overworked cunt, into that slick, wet heat that’s constantly dribbling down both their shafts, slicking the way. It feels good, frotting up against Hamura too. Invested in his own pleasure, in the fact that he’s got his cock tucked against another man’s, enveloped inside a pussy, he doesn’t care for the fact that Kengo might need some time to adjust and get comfortable before he starts thrusting.

“ _Ahh_!” Kengo shrieks, grabbing Hamura’s hand and white knuckling between his fingers. From this position, he can’t see Hamura’s grin, can’t see the sweat slicking his neck, his bobbing Adam’s apple, his approval shining on his face as much as the sheen of perspiration. Hamura should have undressed, too, but he feels powerful like this, in his suit, with two naked whores having sex on his lap.

God, he really likes his own damn life.

“Fuck, he just sucks you right in, doesn’t he?” Yagami says, his hips moving faster and faster, the feeling of Hamura’s cock right up against his own, a still, full presence making him leak like crazy as well. He can’t figure out what fluids are the lube, Kengo’s, Hamura’s, or are his own—but regardless, the sticky mess makes him lean forward and press his lips to Kengo’s.

“ _Mmh_ —” Kengo moans, opening his mouth and pressing their tongues together. His clit isn’t the only thing that’s pierced.

Hamura starts working his hips, too then—not that he can move that much, with both of them keeping him pinned to the loveseat, but he still slams up against his pussy as brutally as he can manage. “Maybe we’ll take your ass next,” he suggests, his voice a low growl, sounding just as predatory as he feels, “Keep both your holes full of cum and watch it leak out of you before we pump you full again. Wouldn’t you like that? Being our cocksleeve?”

Yagami’s motions suddenly still when Hamura whispers, “Maybe we’ll get you pregnant.”

“ _Wait_ —” Yagami protests. He doesn’t mind what equipment a guy (or a girl) has, but he’s got his _conditions_.

Kengo rolls his eyes, and despite being marathon-red in the face, his voice is surprisingly level for a man with two cocks inside of him, “He’s just dirty-talking. Hysterectomy.”

Reassured, Yagami begins thrusting in again, practically humping him like a dog.

“Fuck,” he gasps. Kengo’s squeezing them so well, his pussy’s so tight. His puffy cuntlips are swollen around the base of Yagami’s tan shaft, and the image of how Hamura and Yagami must look inside of him has Yagami forming a mental reminder to buy a clear onahole big enough for both him and Hamura to share.

Probably won’t feel as good as this furnace-warm cunt that, with a squeeze and a high-pitched cry as Yagami passes his thumb over the pierced clit, cums all over their cocks. Kengo’s practically _sobbing_ as he hunches over, grabbing Yagami by the shoulders, body wracking in on itself in uncontrolled quivers. His shoulders shake and Hamura rears up, slamming forward until the bulk of Kengo’s ass is pressed tight against his abdomen. He holds out for a second and closes his eyes, feeling Yagami’s thrusts, the slide of his cock against his own not unlike being licked or given a handjob, and he comes as well.

Kengo feels so full, feels almost bloated with cocks, but the cum has him sealing his eyes shut. It’s not like he can feel it inside of him, but he can certainly feel it as it drips out of him, ticklish and slick and making him feel so, so lewd.

When he opens his eyes, he can see the outline of both their dicks in his stomach. The sight is as shocking as it is mind-bogglingly slutty.

It doesn’t take long for Yagami as well, not with that wet heat surrounding him, not with the sight of white fluid dribbling down Hamura’s shaft, collecting on his balls. Yagami feels disgusting in the best way possible, and as he buries his cock up, he cums as well. Picturing the tip of his cock emptying into Kengo’s cervix, the idea that he could have gotten him knocked up—it incites something primal in him, and his balls and heart practically throb in tandem.

“Ugh…” Kengo whines. Everything below his navel is sore, and he watches with a wet, open mouth as Yagami’s cock slips out of him. Hamura stays inside for a while, Kengo content to lay back against him, until he feels him patting his ass. With much effort, he lifts himself, his body aching. Yagami collapses on the bed and Kengo pads over to sit beside him. He watches himself leak cum on the bedsheets and feels his clit twitch in renewed interest. He hopes they’re willing to go again.

They’ve got the room all night.

Hamura looks at them as he carefully removes his jacket and begins working at the glossy buttons on his shirt. Yagami’s hand pumps his own softening dick mindlessly, his free hand resting on Kengo’s muscular quad. He lazily traces the shape of it with the tip of his finger. It’s almost flirty, shy, as if he didn’t just have sex with the guy.

Hamura surveys the wall of qipao, dragging his finger over the silk cloth. He settles on a fuchsia one patterned with a variety of lotus flowers, and a jade one with the image of a silver-scaled dragon embedded upon the breast.

Picking them both from their hangers, he turns to his two good boys.

“Why don’t you two kiss each other a little?” he suggests, and then smiles, dreamily. “Oh, isn’t that just _darling_? I love seeing my wives get along.”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if this is poorly-written or sucks ass i have the flu but i packed celery sticks in your lunchbox remember to eat them mwah mwah love dad
> 
> [here's my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


End file.
